


corps-à-corps

by race_me



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Alternative Universe - 1900s, Fencing, M/M, Masturbation, Period Typical Attitudes, Pining, Unresolved Romantic Tension, schulott in tight white fencing leggings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-26
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-17 10:13:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29715603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/race_me/pseuds/race_me
Summary: The 1900 Summer Olympics see the turn of the century, the first women contestants, the first motorsport racing and the tender love between Callum and Mick.
Relationships: Callum Ilott/Mick Schumacher
Comments: 5
Kudos: 25





	corps-à-corps

**Author's Note:**

> hi! this is me experimenting with styles and situations i wouldn't normaly write about. i try to research things but seen as i've never lived in the year 1900, inaccuracies might slip. hope this is enjoyable enough

The 1900 Summer Olympics organise seven fencing events at the Tuileries Garden. They start on May 14th, when all the flowers are in full bloom and it smells like victory to everyone.

Paris is accommodating all contestants and attendees. There’s a new fashion after the turn of the century - ladies have to throw away their old dresses or repurpose them entirely. The fashion houses are calling it _haute couture_ , but to the ordinary mademoiselle it still means an S-bend corset to stifle the ribs. A man’s silhouette is still long, lean and athletic, enveloped by a three-piece no matter the weather. A slight upturn might be the introduction of cuffed trousers. Ankles are finally widely available to the masculine population.

All who’s who of something like to stroll along the Seine, showing off a worthy companion on their arm, looking around to make sure that others see what they’re supposed to see - happy, smiling, preoccupied aristocracy, young men and women whose biggest wish is to astound.

Herr Mick Schumacher stays away from the promenade. He arrives in Paris from Berlin on May 10th and finds his accommodation, right by the Louvre. Madame Adrienne lends him one of her apartments, on the second floor of a chic building, overseeing the eastern part of the Gardens. He pays for another room for Bernd, his Kammerherr, on the same floor, giving him enough money to last three months and clear instructions to have fun and enjoy the French eccentricities, as long as he doesn’t bring shame to Mick’s name.

He remains in his rooms the entire four days leading up to the Olympics. His food is served three times a day as per his preference. He does not enjoy tea nor sweets and the only request he has is for Bernd to fetch him a copy of the newly-published “The Wonderful Wizard of Oz” in French - he wants to practice his vocabulary.

He purposely avoids going out, because out is where he might see Sir Ilott, the too-bright, too-audacious, too-handsome British man he will have to compete against at one point or another in the following month. Instead, he occupies his mind with physical training, reading, looking at the tapet, shining his epee, sighing.

-

Sir Callum Ilott lodges on the western side of the Tuileries Garden, unaware that if only he turned his head towards the sunrise, he would see the distant contour of Herr Schumacher’s apartment.

He arrives in Paris on the 10th of May, too, but coming from Cambridge. He rents the entire third floor of Madame Célestine’s mansion - four bedrooms, two toilettes, two large salons to accommodate guests - immediately opening the windows to let in fresh air and the parisian murmur below. His gentleman’s gentleman, Barney, leaves the lodges with forty handwritten telegrams meant to arrive that very night in the sunrooms of the most beautiful revelers in the city.

There’s a party brewing in Sir Ilott’s salons, and on the 11th of May, the chamber orchestra can be heard from down the street. There’s laughter, crystal glasses clinking, a cacophony of languages, the sound of youth and carelessness. Callum can feel the smell of powder and cologne seeping through his clothing. He has already discarded his tailcoat somewhere in one of the rooms, unbuttoned his vest and loosened his burgundy red tie, unbuttoning his collar. The sweat at the back of his neck is cooling, a grime reminder that however heavenly the night feels, they’re all merely human.

He’s tiptoeing around the room, floating from one conversation to another, kissing ladies on both cheeks, shaking hands, accepting toasts. He’s tipsy beyond his wish, sad that the edges of his vision are starting to blur. He switches the champagne for water, willing his mind to remain alert and checking the front door every few minutes.

He invited everybody who is somebody, most of whom are the regular crowd from the Fencing Summer Olympics - French attendees and their lady partners, the entire Cuban team (one person), his Italian friends, but most importantly, the nine Austrian contestants, who are drinking rivers of bubbles and frothing over the mademoiselles, truly the life of the party. Their only fault is that they haven’t brought along the only German fencer who is competing, and the only person Callum had any interest in seeing in the first place.

He has no idea where Herr Mick might stay. The latter never said in the past six years they’ve known each other. He hoped that someone from his neighboring country might bring him along, but it turns out none of the Austrians know, either. Even so, Callum accepts with a resigned huff, even if through some Aphrodisian miracle word had reached Mick of the party, he wouldn’t come.

Callum feels his smile falling, so he makes his way to the grand balcony and turns his back to the crowd. The frown that settles on his forehead is for himself and the moon only. He looks over the illuminated gardens, over the Louvre, over the clear night sky. What an ache, that he has everything and yet he still wants more. What a wound, that the “more” he wants does not seem to want him back.

-

There’s no opening ceremony - though we have many to celebrate. It’s the first time women are ever competing in the Olympics and the first time we’re seeing automobile and motorcycle racing; it’s sunny and bright outside; the century still feels new, hopeful.

On the 14th and 15th we’re seeing the amateur foil competition. There’s 54 fencers who duel over the course of the two days, and Mick and Callum are among them. It turns out they don’t actually directly compete against each other just yet, much to Callum’s relief - or dismay?

They do see each other in the arena. Or rather, Callum sees Mick, who doesn’t even glance back.

Mick is broad, that’s the best descriptor Callum’s education can muster. He keeps his blonde hair shortly trimmed, to go with the rest of his proper posture. Although most fencers have adopted the new and chic knee breeches, Mick still likes the victorian white tight pants, a mirror of Callum’s. He’s got a determined frown on his face, which can only be differentiated from the regular frown he sports at all other times by the fact that his jaw is also clenched.

Callum, on the other end of the arena, focuses on his own duels and lets all other thoughts bounce off. He’s trained harder this past year, going regularly to his local gentleman’s gatherings and making the trip to the London Thames Fencing Club at least once a month. He can feel the improvement in each move, each lounge, each victory. His muscles have reached a certain level of automation that allow him to focus and attack, rather than react. His opponents don’t seem to like his aggressiveness too much - but he’s not here to be friendly.

In the end, on the evening of May 15th, the judges decide on 37 fencers to advance to the next round, both Mick and Callum among them.

They meet in the Gardens, right as everyone is leaving the arena. Mick seems to be waiting for a carriage, and Callum excuses himself from his group of friends to stroll over, ignoring the feeling of their inquiring eyes on his back. It’s not at all hard to do, when Mick turns to him and his own blue eyes effectively erase every other sensation.

“Well, Guten Tag, Herr Schumacher,” Callum tips his head, smiling his best rehearsed smile and hoping that the cologne he’s sprayed on will mask the sweat from today’s duels.

“Hello to you too,” Mick answers, empty but polite. He’s still in his fencing gear, having only changed his shoes. Callum supposes that _less is more_ can also be applied to effort.

“Congratulations on your performance so far. I would have hoped to duel you but I believe we still have time for that.”

“Thank you,” Mick nods, then falls silent.

Still a man of few words, then.

“So how are you enjoying Paris?”

Even to his own ears, Callum’s voice sounds unsure and high pitched. He somehow doubts this is the way to make an impression.

Mick indulges him, anyway.

“It deserves the popularity, I suppose. It’s my fourth time visiting so the romance is lost on me.”

“Oh, but how can one ever grow tired of The City of Light? Perhaps it’s because one never leaves his chambers?” Callum cannot help the sting he aims, revels in the way Mick glooms. “I had a party a few days ago, to celebrate the Games. I would have hoped to invite you, too, but when I asked around for your address, nobody knew where you were staying!”

The tone is only mildly scandalous, as if the offence Mick has committed can be passed as tea gossip.

“I don’t particularly enjoy parties,” Mick offers back, apparently not taking the bait. That’s fine, Callum has more where that came from.

“You would have enjoyed mine.”

“How so?”

“Well, to begin with, I had the orchestra play waltzes.”

“I don’t enjoy waltzes, either.”

“You would have enjoyed them with me.”

That does get a reaction from Mick; one of his eyebrows rises, giving Callum an unimpressed and slightly annoyed look. Callum wonders if he’s overstepped, if out of all the teasing he’s done for the past six years, at different competitions or events, all over Europe, that comment has finally filled the metaphorical glass to the brim.

Surprisingly, for everyone but especially for Mick himself, the German rises to the occasion.

“I doubt you’re a match for my dancing.”

Callum has to laugh, and then has to look around to make sure that no carriage is coming and they’ve still got minutes to talk. This is delicious, this might fuel his fantasies for the entire summer, this should be endless.

“How would you know how to dance if you never go out into society? And how would you know how I dance if you’ve never seen me?”

“It’s just an impression,” Mick offers. His eyes are relaxed.

“Impressions are wrong. For example, my impression of you is that you’re awfully rude and unsympathetic, and yet here you are actually holding a conversation.” Callum says, the smile on his face murdering any attempt at seriousness.

“No, I believe _both_ our impressions are correct.” Mick concludes, right before he’s tapped on the shoulder by somebody who Callum assumes is his valet. They exchange short words in German, then Mick is pointed to an awaiting carriage and it’s evident that the play has ended.

“Danke, Bernd.” He turns to face Callum fully, looking him right in the eye, shifting back to the austere man he clearly is on the surface. “Good luck to you in the next rounds,” and then he points to somewhere behind Callum’s back. “If you want to see my dancing abilities, perhaps lose that noisy pack of friends that you drag around everywhere and ask me again.”

-

Callum fists his sheets in bed that night. He’s on his front, sweat from his abdomen and thighs drenching the silk, right hand twisted behind him to reach his hole. The oil smells like lavender, but that’s no consolation. He’s alone.

His only undoing is his own memory, Mick’s face freshly imprinted on the back of his eyelids from earlier today, eyes bright and menacingly blue. Callum only has his fingers to chase away the ghost of lust, and they’re far from enough, but they’re also the sole pedestal of his sanity.

He can feel the burn in his muscles from all the physical effort of the Olympics, but it doesn’t stop him from rutting against the hard mattress, clenching and unclenching, panting, moaning. He can be as loud as he wants in this suite that's too big for him alone, that fails to fill any of the pathetic gaps in his facade.

He comes with tears streaming down his cheeks.

**Author's Note:**

> i'd love to read your thoughts/suggestions/complaints. i'm [@race-me](https://race-me.tumblr.com/) on tumblr


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